


Twelve Hours

by JeffersonStarship



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 01:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2292215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeffersonStarship/pseuds/JeffersonStarship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene for 9.23 Do You Believe in Miracles? What took place in the gap between the homeless encampment and the bunker?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve Hours

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So, at first I was a little nervous posting this, as it’s the first ever SPN fic I’ve written. But with a couple of proof-readings and some kind words by my abnosome, partner-in-kale Rio1013, I feel a lot better about it.  
> Please read and review if you so choose. Depending on the feedback I get on this story, I may write more. =)
> 
> Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to the brilliant Eric Kripke. Mr. Kripke, I will return them after posting this (in a slightly-more-used condition).
> 
> Song is “Breathe Me” by Sia.

_“Help, I have done it again_   
_I have been here many times before_   
_Hurt myself again today_   
_And the worst part is there’s no one else to blame_

_Be my friend...”_

 

***SAM'S PERSPECTIVE***

Sam's heart was pounding as he half led, half dragged Dean closer to anywhere but here. His left hand was pressed tightly against the seeping hole in his brother's chest as he supported most of Dean's weight with his right arm.

_Just get to the car, get to the car_ , Sam repeated to himself silently. He didn't know what came next. An irrational voice in his head urged that everything would fall into place once the Impala was in view. He refused to dwell on that irrationality right now and focused on guiding them out of this … death trap.

Dean's weight increased as he tried to stop, tried to rest, and Sam swore with the extra burden.

“Sam, hold up. Hold up.”

Not wanting to stop but feeling exhausted, Sam stumbled and rested Dean against an old rusty piece of machinery. Dean sat on the edge, breathing hard and shuddering with the effort of holding himself upright.

“Hey,” Sam whispered, attempting to draw Dean's green eyes back to him. He didn't like the expression on Dean's features one bit. It was one of resignation. Dean took a few shallow breaths, seeming to build whatever strength he had left in his broken and abused body. Sam thought he glimpsed a small smile on his face, but he couldn't be sure.

“I gotta say something to you.” Dean's eyes finally met Sam's and he cuffed his younger brother's shoulder with a weak palm.

“What?” Sam questioned, unable to raise his voice any louder than a whisper. He wanted to stop Dean's words; put this whole god damned goodbye speech on the back burner and get him somewhere he could be helped. _We just need to stop the bleeding and then–_

“I'm proud of us.” Dean gently patted the side of Sam's face, then his eyes began to drift shut. Sam had a feeling there was more Dean wanted to say, and he felt a pang of regret at not allowing him to finish his speech earlier as the two men had stood behind the Impala. He caught Dean in his arms as he slumped forward and felt him shakily exhale one last time.

“No. Hey hey hey hey. Hey,” he cupped Dean's face and pushed him away so he could see him better. “Hey, wake up. Hey. Dean.” He stared into his brother's face, waiting for him to take a breath, to open his eyes. Sam felt a shudder of terror roll through his own body, and he shook the older man slightly, his fear finally allowing him to yell. “DEAN!”

Still nothing. No movement, no breath. Sam felt tears spill out of his eyes as he pulled Dean towards him, holding him in a tight hug and beginning to sob. This wasn't happening. It was never meant to go down like this. Dean was supposed to take out Metatron, then they would find a way to rid him of the Mark, dispose of that cursed blade, and eventually things could get back to normal.

_Well, normal for a Winchester anyway._

Sam didn't know how much time had passed. He only loosened his grip when he realized he was clinging to Dean so tight that his arms were numb.

“Dean?” Using one arm to hold Dean upright, he leaned him back and felt along his older brother's throat for a pulse. Nothing. Sam expected as much, and he ran through options in his head. He could perform CPR on Dean, but he doubted it would help anything seeing the fatal location of Dean's wound. Or he could get them out of here. Calling Castiel wouldn’t help, either -- the angel had his own issues to deal with right now.

Sam made his decision and ducked, hefting Dean over his right shoulder and holding onto the back of his legs as he unsteadily made his way toward where he had parked the Impala. Dean hadn't left the keys after knocking him unconscious, but Sam knew how to hot-wire a car -- Dean had taught him very early in life, albeit unknowing it may be used on his own car one day. As soon as he had regained his wits after having his lights punched out earlier, he had driven as close as he could to the encampment where he knew Metatron, and now Dean, were located.

He had to go back through the crowd in the homeless encampment. The group who had once tried to halt his entrance now parted as Sam emerged, his brother over his shoulder and his steps dragging but purposeful. Metatron's previously blind followers now all seemed to have looks of remorse on their faces. They _saw_. They watched silently as Sam stumbled through them. They did not offer their help, but neither did they attempt to stop him.

By the time he reached the car, Sam was exhausted. He always forgot how heavy Dean really was until he had to haul him somewhere. After propping Dean against his baby and opening the rear drivers side door, Sam maneuvered Dean's limp form into the backseat. He positioned him in a way that looked somewhat comfortable, ran a finger gently down his brother's slack face, then searched his pockets until he found the key to the Impala. He shut the door and jumped into the driver's seat.

Going to a hospital never even crossed Sam's mind. Dean was … gone. Any hope of getting his brother back did not lay in the hands of some medical professional. Sam covered the eleven and a half hour drive back to the bunker in just over ten hours. He only stopped once to refuel the car. He pushed the Impala as fast as she would go the whole way. He didn't get catch the attention of any police cruisers – although Sam dared anyone, anything to try and stop him. Something beyond his awareness kept him awake, kept him focused.

Finally pulling up in front of the bunker and screeching to a halt, Sam wasted no time in removing his brother from the backseat and hefting him into the large underground building. He paused at the bathroom, leaned down, and gently set Dean onto the floor in the hallway so he was sitting against a wall.

Sam retrieved a hand towel and wet it with warm water from the bathroom sink. He returned to Dean and crouched in front of him. He carefully began wiping the caked, dried blood from his brother's face and neck. He couldn't explain his actions and didn't try. He just could not stand to look at all that gore staining his big brother's face. After rinsing the towel several times, Sam finally managed to get the worst off. He paused, then removed Dean's jacket from his shoulders, wanting him to be comfortable. Jackets weren't supposed to be worn in a house, right?

Again he lifted Dean, this time cradling him like a baby: one arm under his knees and the other supporting his upper back and neck. Dean's face rolled to the side and rested against Sam's shoulder as he stood. He carried Dean into his room – the only room he had known for more than thirty years. Dean had decorated it; made it him, while Sam hadn't even begun to settle in.

Sam laid his brother down on top of the neatly made bed. Who would have thought that Dean would be such a tidy person once he had his own home? His eyes drifted to the picture of their mom Dean kept, and he felt his heart drop right to the floor.

The younger man took a step back, his gaze finally resting on Dean's face, unwilling to lower his eyes to look at the ugly, blood-soaked t-shirt with the tear in it. Finally, Sam lost any control he had held during the drive and while bringing Dean to his bedroom. Tears began to spill out of his eyes as he stared at his brother's still features. Cuts and bruises stood out against his pale skin.

“Dean.” His voice was raspy and thick with tears. “I don’t know what to say. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry about everything I said to you. I was wrong. I was angry. I _would_ do the same for you, and I'm going to figure this out.”

Running a hand through his hair, Sam took a deep, shaky breath. He had some thinking to do. He would get his brother back, no matter what it took.

Sometime later, he was in the dungeon, slowly and deliberately speaking through the spell that would summon the demon Crowley.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Ouch, I have lost myself again_   
_Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found_   
_Yeah, I think that I might break_   
_Lost myself again and I feel unsafe...”_

 

***DEAN'S PERSPECTIVE***

Dean had begun to feel numb. He had felt the pain at first; shortly after the knife had been yanked from his chest and up until about thirty seconds ago. He knew that could not be a good sign that he couldn't feel anymore. It was closer to a dull pressure in his chest now, and Sam was leading him away from where Metatron had pulled his cowardly disappearing act. He knew he was hanging heavily off of Sam's shoulder, yet he felt weightless.

Dean could hear in Sam's ragged breaths and could see in his face that he was scared. Dean hated being the reason for his brother to be afraid. His vision began to blur, and he got the eerie feeling that if he didn't say anything to his brother now, he never would get the chance to again.

“Sam, hold up. Hold up.” Dean wasn't aware of it, but he must have put more weight on Sam because Sam stumbled, then propped Dean up on a rusty piece of old machinery.

For a moment (maybe more – time wasn't his best friend right now), Dean had to focus on pulling air in and pushing it back out. His lightheaded-ness was increasing. His brain needed oxygen. Also blood flow, but the latter had other places to be and was seeping out of his chest steadily.

“Hey,” Sam's urgent whisper pulled him back to awareness.

“I gotta say something to you,” Dean managed to pat Sam's upper arm weakly to get his attention. The gesture was unnecessary, for Sam's eyes hadn't left him since the two had stopped.

“What?” his brother's voice was still a whisper, and Dean tried not to think too hard about the anguish and panic he saw in Sam's eyes.

There was so much he wanted to say, needed to say. But for the life of him, the words would not come to him. Dean had been ready to say it all back at the trunk of the Impala, but Sam's quick 'I knows' had stopped him. He didn't blame Sam at all. Goodbye was always a tough thing to say.

Dean felt himself fading fast. He summoned up his best grin and said quickly, “I'm proud of us.”

All went black, and the last thing Dean registered was his younger brother's voice yelling his name.

Some time passed.

Then Dean woke up. To the heartbreaking sound of his brother crying. He sighed, and with a slight roll of his eyes tried to wrap his arms around Sam, to comfort him, but his arms went right through him as if Sam had no substance; as if Sam were a ghost.

Then Dean slowly came to a realization. _Close but no pie._

Dean stood, holding his arms out in front of him, needing to prove something to himself. As he suspected, he stumbled directly _through_ Sam. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then forced his eyelids back open and turned around.

Sam's shoulders were shaking with each sob, holding tightly to his big brother's body. Dean glanced down at the front of his shirt and it was untouched by blood. He nodded knowingly, a wry smile forming across his features. “So where's my reaper?” he questioned, turning slowly in a circle.

His answer was silence, and more whimpering from Sam.

“They must be sick of me, not even bothering with the reaper this time.”

“Dean?” Sam's voice drew his attention immediately back to his brother, and he saw Sam checking his neck for a pulse. Sam let out a shaking breath and appeared to think for a moment.

“If you try CPR on that wreck of a chest wound, I'm going to ghost-kick your ass,” Dean stated.

Finally, Sam ducked and tucked Dean over his shoulder. He huffed as he stood and began to walk.

“Stop acting like I'm heavy, Jolly Green.” Wait, where did that nickname come from?

_Crowley. Fucking Crowley._

Dean glanced around one last time before jogging to catch up to his brother's side. Apparently he had nothing else to attend to, and he knew Sam would need company.

He tried not to let his gaze linger on Metatron's followers once they came back into view, but somehow felt a sense of pity for them as he watched the crowd silently part and let the tall man carrying his dead brother through. Blind followers – now uncertain – was all they were.

Dean followed and watched as Sam lugged him to the Impala.

“Aww baby, did he violate you?” he asked, spotting the wires dangling from beneath the dashboard. He tried to run a hand along her smooth roof comfortingly, but again his hand met with nothing solid.

_Alright Dean, you're gonna need to remember your little black book of spirit mojo tricks if you want to be able to ride in your car one last time._

As Sam situated Dean's physical form in the back seat, Dean took a deep breath and rounded the car, knowing he'd need to ride shotgun if he didn't want to completely freak Sam out. He stared through the window at the familiar texture of the leather seat, then closed his eyes, thought hard, and then he was sitting in the passenger seat as Sam climbed in behind the wheel.

“Just take me somewhere and roast me, Sammy.”

It was a long drive back to the bunker. At least that was where Sam seemed to be heading, although Dean had no idea what he might hope to accomplish there. Sam drove throughout the night, his face set in a grim determination with his eyes never leaving the road that stretched before them. Dean wished he would turn on the music. A little Zeppelin would be good right now. Maybe some Bad Company or BOC. He could turn it on himself, but figured that would disturb his brother.

Most of the ride was in silence; every once in a while Dean glanced at Sam, wondering if he should say something to him. But no words came to mind at first. Nothing seemed suitable for the moment, and it wasn’t like Sam could even hear him.

Finally, when the silence became too much to stand and the sun had begun to rise in a bright fuchsia sky, Dean turned his head again for the thousandth time. Sam's eyelids were drooping, dark shadows taking up residence around them and red tinging the whites of his eyes. “Hey Sammy.”

Dean swallowed hard. “I'm gone. What are you going to do?” but part of him already knew the answer to that. _Whatever he could._

“You said that you wouldn't do the same for me, not anymore. You said I should have never brought you back. So why not just take me somewhere and have a bonfire, maybe make some s’mores, drink some Jack in my honor, then get on with your life?”

Sam's eyes widened a bit, and though he still stared straight out of the windshield, he appeared more awake.

Dean kept talking. “Remember that time you couldn't sleep, you were like fifteen? We were stuck in yet another motel room. Dad was on a hunt -- I think it was that harpy in Michigan’s U.P., right? -- and you were worried because he didn't call that night. You'd been a little grump the whole time Dad was gone, and I wanted to smack you. Finally I told you that I would let you try some of Dad's whiskey, but you had to promise to stop being a little asshat. You agreed.”

The side of Sam's mouth turned up slightly. Maybe he could hear him.

“I poured us both a shot of whiskey, and counted down from three and we both drank it. The look on your face, baby brother...” Dean smiled. “I thought you were going to hurl it right back up, but you didn't. You made me proud that night, Sammy.”

His brother appeared as though he had gotten another wind, and no longer looked on the verge of nodding off at the wheel.

“Of course, you told on me a week later. Dad was angry with you for something and you told him I let you try booze to take the focus off of yourself. It worked. I suppose I taught you right, little brother.” Dean was grinning, and Sam had a slight glimmer in his eye.

“I … I guess my point is that we've been through a lot. And I think for the most part we have made the right decisions. With a couple of obvious exceptions of course. But we've always had good intentions. You and me have saved a lot of people, hunted and killed a shit ton of bad things. Overall, we've done well, and I just wanted you to know I'm proud of us.” Dean's voice cracked at the end of the sentence, and he reached up quickly to wipe the wetness from his eyes. “If this is the end, I'd be okay with that.”

A lone tear slid down Sam's face, and he used his shirt sleeve to brush it away. Dean had to look away, and the rest of the trip was passed in more silence.

The Impala finally screeched to a halt in front of the bunker, and Dean watched on wearily as Sam transported his body from the back seat, in through the heavily locked door, and set him down outside of the bathroom.

He watched as Sam wet a towel from the bathroom sink and carefully began wiping away the caked on blood from Dean's gaunt face.

Dean felt his heart grow heavier as he watched. “Why you doing that, Sam? Roast some marshmallows already.”

He watched as Sam finished cleaning off the worst of the dried blood, and transported Dean's body to his room, laying him carefully on top of the made bed. Sam stepped back and Dean approached his side. He started to place a hand on his brother's shoulder, but stopped himself.

Sam began to cry once more. “Dean.” His voice was raspy but thick with emotion. “I don’t know what to say. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry about everything I said to you. I was wrong. I was angry. I _would_ do the same for you, and I'm going to figure this out.” He sighed and seemed to try to gather the pieces of himself back together.

Dean furrowed his brows, unable to move, even after Sam strode purposefully out of the room, closing the dual doors carefully behind him. “Sammy. Don’t do it,” he whispered to the empty room.

Some more time passed.

Then Crowley suddenly spoke.

“Your brother, bless his soul...”


End file.
